


so give 'em all to me (and i'll give mine to you)

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Black Panther (2018) Spoilers, F/M, M/M, Nakia/T'Challa/Sam Wilson, Shades of Sam/Steve/Natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13732125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: So. The thing is. Wakanda is an issue for Sam. More than an issue. An outright crisis. (Or, the one where Sam develops a crush or two in his time with the Wakandans.)





	so give 'em all to me (and i'll give mine to you)

So. The thing is. Wakanda is an issue for Sam.

More than an issue. An outright crisis _._

It’s another day of Sam pacing like a madman across the tiny room they use for reconnaissance, and another day of him swearing he’s going to stay tight-lipped about it because maybe that way Steve won’t ask. Still, there’s a certain agitation to the set of Sam’s shoulders that anyone, let alone his best friend, would recognize.

Okay, recognize, maybe, but not sympathize with. The bastard.

“Maybe you should just ask whoever it is out for dinner,” Steve suggests. He’s looking over one of his maps, a furrow between his brows. Sam wants to bean him in the head with one of his stupid tactical gloves. (Which are dyed black because Steve is a jock with goth tendencies, and Sam will never let him forget it, even though Steve scowls as says it’s for subterfuge.)

“I can’t just _ask_ them to _dinner_ ,” Sam says, thereby proving there _is_ someone that he would theoretically like to take out. He doesn’t pout because he’s a grown man. A grown man with a couple of medals and a war or two behind him. A grown man who can fly.

A grown man with a _crush_. No, worse. Two crushes.

Steve finally glances up from his maps, perhaps tipped off by the slight whine in Sam’s voice. Sam never whines.

“Why not?” he asks, giving Sam a quizzical look. “Do you think they’re gonna be weird about--you know--” He flutters his fingers vaguely from his chest down to his groin. Only the years of their friendship and Sam’s deep and abiding love for him stop a groan from ripping out of Sam’s chest at the gesture.

“Steve, man,” he says instead, “You can say the word bisexuality.”

Steve’s ears go bright pink. “I know!” he says defensively, and the fingers stop fluttering, thankfully nowhere near the region of his crotch, which Sam already tries very studiously to never examine at any length. “I know,” he repeats, “I just thought--it’s new.”

Sam smiles at that, affectionate. He walks over to Steve, slings an arm around his neck, and squeezes. “To _you_ ,” he reminds. “I’ve lived with it my whole life, and told a few people along the way. Never came up with us till recently because it never seemed the time.”

Steve gives Sam a push. “Yeah, going on the run as fugitives really brings all kinds of things to the surface, huh?” he says dryly.

Sam shrugs. Constantly being around super hot superheroes might have helped, too.

“Something like that,” he allows. “But nah, I’m not scared about being who I am here. Wakanda’s more progressive than the west on a lot of fronts, including this one. Don’t think they’d bat an eye if I showed up to dinner with a dude on my arm.”

Steve cocks his head. “So what’s the problem?” he asks patiently. There’s a light of understanding in his eyes. “Is it because it’s someone...off limits?”

Sam frowns. “Something like that,” he repeats.

Nat sneaks by him on the best of days, which is why Sam excuses himself for shrieking like a baby when she pokes him in the side, popping up between him and Steve like a very alert gopher, nose twitching for info. She might be a big bad spy, but she’s also a shameless gossip, and Sam feels dread creep up his spine at her interested expression.

“Ooh, Sam’s got a crush on a Wakandan?” she asks. At Steve’s slight head-shake and not-at-all-subtle “keep going” gesture, she elaborates, “Sam’s got a crush on a Wakandan we _know_?” She pokes Sam again.

Steve stifles a snort, poking Sam, too. “Maybe more than one,” he teases. “He’s being very close-lipped about it.”

“Because you guys are the _worst_ ,” Sam says darkly, scrambling away. “Roasting my ass for no reason. I get drunk once at a Wakandan gala and mention _in passing_ that people here are kinda good-looking--”

Natasha interrupts, eyebrow raised. “You said, and I quote, ‘Why is everyone at this dinner table finer than wine?’ and then you asked one of Princess Shuri’s lab techs if they have anything that measures whether someone _like-_ likes you or just tolerates you because of diplomacy.”

Sam folds his arms. “It’s not funny,” he says tersely.

Steve grins gently. “It was a _little_ funny,” he suggests. “Come on, Sam, there’s nothing wrong with finding someone attractive, even if we are kind of technically fugitives and it’s probably not the time. Hey, you look like you’re gonna be sick. What’s up?”

Sam can’t handle it. He just can’t. It’s been _months_ with only Steve’s bad existential humor and Nat’s even worse dad jokes to break up the battle tactics conversation, no matter how badly he might’ve wanted to talk to them about this...this thing. At the thought of keeping it a secret forever, Sam breaks.

Without a word, he strides over to the small side table in the corner and grabs a magazine that’s lying under some papers. He strides back over to Steve and shoves it in his face.

“Because of this,” he says.

“It’s T’Challa!” he bites out, yanking the magazine back. “Okay? Fine. I admit it. I do have a crush. On a Wakandan. On a royal Wakandan. Who happens to be engaged. To another, equally attractive Wakandan, that I’m _equally into_. That’s why I don’t say anything--why I can’t.” He makes a face. “Out of everyone here, it had to be the damn king.  _And_ his damn fiancee.”

Steve and Natasha’s face are a picture. Priceless. Twin gazes--round and startled.

“I have good taste,” Sam says, unable to stop himself from the small grin. “But sucky timing. Meeting ‘em when they already--y’know--met each other.” He shrugs. “But I can’t really help it. Got a thing for people who do the right thing no matter what the cost. Who are ready to protect what’s theirs with their life. Who know and care about honor and loyalty and, I dunno, protecting people who can't protect themselves. Who aren’t afraid to _fight_  but who can learn to trust other people.”

Sam knows he’s talking about T’Challa and Nakia, but there’s a lot of love in his voice when he says the words and looks at Steve and Natasha, seeing all the same things in these people, this man and this woman. Each a wing at his back, someone to watch his six in the sky and on the ground. His teammates. His hopelessly hot teammates.

It’s possible that Sam’s....got a type.

“But anyway,” he says forcefully, and scrubs a hand over his scalp, rubbing at the closely-shorn curls and giving the aching muscles at the base of his skull a press. “None of this can turn into anything. I've done this whole dance before, I know I just got stars in my eyes. Being allies was enough. Getting closer to them, that's what has my head in the clouds."

And it's true. There's been months of a tentative, gradual friendship blossoming, something to occupy Sam's time when Steve's brooding and Nat's skulking are too much, too lonely. Dinners and sparring and walking the hills, trading stories, laughing with each other. T'Challa taking him into the air with new wing prototypes that Shuri begs them to test. Nakia teaching Sam about the various ways to become part of hurting communities, healing them from within, sometimes with deadly precision and other times with gentle persuasion. They are smart. They are _funny_. And they are so, so hot. It's not fair.

"Who talks social progress while watching the goddamned  _sunsets_ , man, it got me stupid." Sam sighs, hugs his elbows close. "I know I gotta get a grip. Remember it doesn’t change anything about who and what we are. A foreigner on the run and royalty. A pararescuer with no country and two who lead one all on their own. A man with a mission and a man and woman with another. Just because they're my only friends right now besides you two clowns, it doesn't mean either of them needs something that complicated with...”

Too late, it strikes Sam that he should ask why Steve and Natasha haven't interrupted his tirade. Why their eyes are still wide, and, uh. Staring past Sam’s shoulder.

He turns slowly, with a sense of out-of-body surreality. His brain registers what he’s seeing before his mouth does, because it continues as King T’Challa and his lady love Nakia stand in the doorway, bemused looks on their _very_ attractive faces.

“...me.”

T’Challa breaks the silence first, perhaps alerted by the whole-body mortification that is robbing Sam of any will to live let alone move or speak.

“Hello, my friends,” he says pleasantly. There is a smile playing around his mouth, a sexy quirk that makes Sam look helplessly at the curve of his lips. He follows Sam’s gaze and the curve deepens; yep, definitely heard at least 90 percent of Sam’s monologue.

Sam swivels to stare at Steve and Natasha, who have blinked and gone back to looking like normal people, albeit normal people who are _very obviously_ struggling to hold back whoops of laughter.

He is going to _kill them._

“Oh, you glare like T'Challa did when we used to tease him about his goatee,” Nakia chuckles from the doorway, and there is a lilt to her voice that sounds like the sun, a familiar warmth that glows through Sam. “He would get so mad! And the goatee was so embarrassing! Please don’t judge your compatriots so unfairly. They would expire from the tragedy of it. And I’m told the world has need of Black Widow and Captain America.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Does it?” he asks cryptically, still telegraphing all kinds of threats their way because good bros alert their friends when their friend’s crushes are within hearing distance! Nat and Steve are not good bros.

T’Challa’s hand is hot on Sam’s shoulder, a brand of five fingers and a strong palm. The only reason Sam doesn’t jump at the sudden proximity and touch is because he’s a little busy melting.

“Yes,” T’Challa says. “Just as many in the world have need of you.” Sam turns back to face him, already mourning the loss of T’Challa’s almost proprietery touch as the king’s hand falls away.

T'Challa’s eyes are dark, and there is a curiosity, a gentle searching to his gaze. Sam’s always thought the man didn’t care for him much, which is probably why he resorted to the time-honored pigtail-pulling method of teasing him about being a cat, but right now...right here...

“A pararescuer with no country,” T’Challa mutters, like he’s turning the words around in his mouth. “Is Wakanda not a home for you? Do you still feel unwelcome in her arms?”

Sam imagines, for a moment, the fold of T’Challa’s embrace, the solidity of it, the smell of metal and skin, herbs and soap. The beat of his heart under the strong planes of his chest.

“No, I...” Sam’s voice is faint. “I feel very, uh, welcome. In her. Arms.”

T’Challa looks doubtful. “You are not a stranger to us anymore, Sam,” he says. “I know you to be a good man. A strong and supportive friend. A hero, who would give his blood for whatever oath he takes. For whoever is fortunate enough to earn his...regard.”

Outside of court, T’Challa rarely gives formal speeches, but there’s a gravity to his voice that touches Sam. That steals the breath from his lungs, a bit.

"Sharing a sunset is no small matter to a Wakandan," T'Challa says, and if his eyes are sad, if they make Sam yearn to reach forward and brush fingers over the set of his jaw, no one but the two of them have to know. "And I do not allow just anyone to fly me into the air, especially when they need a bit of work on their upper body--"

Sam's about to snipe back, but Nakia joins T’Challa then, her steps just as light and silent as his, as Steve’s, as Nat’s. Sam’s surrounded by superspies and superhumans. Could almost turn a man’s head, to be in the middle of all that. Could make him feel brave.

Her hand is purposeful on Sam’s wrist. Her gaze is bold. T’Challa looks down at her with unveiled adoration in his eyes.

“The magazine you showed Captain Rogers. May I see it?”

Sam hands the magazine over, the blush spangling heat under his skin, sweat beading at his collarbones. The amount of times he’s rifled through the pages is obvious from the dog-eared nature of it. But the cover is the most well-loved, creases over the planes of T’Challa’s chest.

Nakia looks at Sam from under her lashes, a smile playing at her lips. “He was so shy at this shoot,” she says. “Until I told him all the proceeds would go to the fund for our new building in Harlem. And then his eyes lit up with such single-mindedness!” Her voice goes low, though she’s still ostensibly speaking to them all. “I wondered, at first, whether it was simply the thought of charity inspiring him. But there is fire in his eyes, isn’t there, Sam? For something in particular. For some _one_.”

She raises the magazine. Traces the eyes staring back at them. The same eyes now looking carefully at him and Nakia both.

“These past several months have been lucky indeed, to create such friendship between us all. I knew you had a respect for him, and he for you. A prickly sort of respect. I did not realize until now that the prickliness might have just been...”

Her finger trails over T’Challa’s glossy magazine lips. “Potential,” she says finally, and her expression is luminous and knowing. She rolls the magazine up slowly, taps it against her chin. Hums. Slow, deliberate actions as Sam swallows, as his pulse grows louder, heartbeat echoing in his ears, his chest, his belly, lower, lower, lower.

“Yes,” she says, “Yes, in Wakanda, we cannot help but see potential wherever we look. And when we see something worth cultivating, we want it to grow. Is this not so, my king?”

T’Challa bows his head, graceful and strong. “It is so,” he allows. “It is a king’s duty to hear even the most unlikely dream. To help it flourish where it may.” He bows even deeper, eyelashes long against his cheekbones. His voice is halting, uncertain in the way that makes him seem young. “Yours does not seem so unlikely a dream.”

Nakia smiles as Sam’s jaw literally drops. Behind them, Natasha coughs, perhaps to cover up Steve’s _giant fucking gasp_. He’s such an old biddy, Sam thinks with grudging amusement, and then he’s not thinking anything at all because Nakia’s got his chin between her fingers.

“We came to invite you to dinner,” she says. “I had a proposition for you.” She tilts her head. “I think perhaps now I will have two.”

She hands off the magazine gently to Sam, raises on her tiptoes to ghost a kiss against his cheek. She smells of sweat and sun and sandlewood, like summer.

T’Challa, too, leans in and for a wild moment Sam thinks he is going to give him a kiss. Instead, he whispers in Sam’s ear:

“Do not bring the white people,” he says, and it’s so unexpectedly hilarious that Sam gives a loud laugh, a ha- _ha!_ that has him grabbing T’Challa’s bicep for purchase.

T’Challa allows it. He might even flex a little, the royal version of a preen. His smile is boyish, intimate. The kind of smile that Sam has longed to see, these innumerable weeks in hiding.

“You got it,” Sam finally says, smiling back. He flashes a look at Nakia, too, finding the courage to turn on the charm, a slant to his eyebrows and a slow burn to his smirk. Gratifyingly, Nakia ducks her head, bites her lip.

T’Challa’s throat clears with a suspicious strangled air. “We take your leave,” he says, backing away, expression slightly gobsmacked.

Sam turns the charm up even higher, lets his hip jut out a bit, folds his arms so they frame his broad chest. More work on his upper body, his  _ass_.

“Okay, bye,” T’Challa tacks on, hastily, holding the crook of his elbow out for Nakia. She takes it with sunny good grace and waves to Sam, to them all.

“To potential,” she toasts, her hand a flag in the air. The vibrant green of her dress flutters at the doorway and then they’re gone, leaving Sam to wave like an idiot after them both.

“To....potential,” Sam echoes. His knees sort of feel like jelly.

Steve and Natasha come up behind him, flanking him. They press, crowding close, all heavy breaths and curiosity, and Sam braces himself for all kinds of comments.

All Steve says though, is: “Holy _shit_.”

And that? Sam can agree with.

Yeah, Wakanda’s gonna have all kinds of issues for Sam.

But maybe that’s not a bad thing anymore. Not a bad thing at all.


End file.
